The House is Rocking
by The Seventh L
Summary: Sequel to The Kids Are All Right. Matsuda learns more about A's past relationship with L and life in Wammy's House. A/Matsuda, past A/L; massive spoilers for Another Note and the first story arc of the Death Note series.


Matsuda is not a nosy person. Not at all. He was just cleaning up in A's apartment while the older man was at a conference in Italy on behalf of Wammy's House, dusting off shelves and rearranging books when he found the false panel on the back of the book shelf, which just so happened to have led to a hollow-out section in the wall where a cardboard box sat, faded and aged as if it has sat there for fifty years untouched.

This is why he's sitting cross-legged on a newly polished hardwood floor, going through the contents of the mystery box one item at a time. Not because he's nosy, but because he's a detective first, damn it, and that means investigate everything. Besides, knowing A, he planned on Matsuda finding it sooner or later. Probably later. And knowing A, he'll be in such an irritated mood from having to spend the weekend with Near and Mello that he wouldn't notice any disturbance to his shelves right away.

The first thing he finds is a manila envelope with A's insignia on it. The flap reads, in mangled kanji, _from Ryuuzaki_ --- a letter from a teacher to his pupil. Matsuda hesitantly opens it to find several sheaves of paper, all dog-eared and thin. The writing is like a blast of static to the face: nothing makes sense, a jumble of symbols and text that he assumed was meant to be writing. He recognizes a scant couple of Latin from his college days, and some odd-looking Japanese symbols, but the meanings are lost to him. Matsuda knows it wasn't meant for him anyway, and sets it aside.

Second object underneath it: a series of faded photographs, sepia-toned and creased. He studies them, rearranges them in a time line until they make sense chronologically, or as much sense as they'll ever make to an outsider. Four photographs, aged windows into the life of A which is looking more and more like a puzzle with every second and every item he uncovers.

First photo: The stained glass windows of a church in the morning light. An old man is standing by the front gate, holding his hat over his heart like a shield, looking off into the distance. Beside him is a scrawny young man, scratching one raised dirty foot as he stares blankly into the lens. The inscription on the back in fine line marker reads _L and Watari, first meeting of us three, post-first successful case._

Second photo: Two men lying side by side on a grassy hill, eyes closed. One wears a white shirt and jeans, the other a black shirt and jeans; physically, they seem exactly the same, except one has less bags under his eyes. _L and B, outside the House, acting like corpses._

Third photo: A chess set in an empty library, the light of a setting sun casting shadows of knights and kings on the board. Nearby, a tea cup sits untouched, lip stained red. _Last game with L, final move._

Fourth photo: The face of a pale face, eyes closed, looking relaxed and unmoving. A white cushion sits behind his head; no shadows seem to be cast on his face. This picture seems more worn-out than the others. _L, dead._

He needs to breath. The shadow of death hangs heavily over his body. Matsuda stands, stumbles with numb legs to the balcony that looks out over the parking lot, at the nearby apartment complex with its many windows (_I believe I am fond of you. Do you like chocolate?_) and occupants. The evening breeze rolls in through his body. He studies the skyline. The sun is starting its slow descent downwards --- has it really been that long since he started cleaning, since he began digging through A's past?

Moments later, he's back at the same spot, setting the four photos into the pile with L's message, lifts up the next thing in the box. A letter, unsent, to Watari, telling him that A is alive and did not commit suicide as previously thought. Matsuda wonders briefly why A didn't send the letter (was he afraid Wammy's House would come after him, get rid of him?) before setting it into the growing pile.

There was a letter at the bottom of the box, the last item. It looked like nothing else inside: the envelope was a creamy smooth white color and looked brand-new, the ink fresh and undamaged. More importantly, it says **to Matsuda; from A**.

_To Matsuda:_

_No doubt that you have found the photos and letters contained in this box, one of fifty I have created in the event that my life is taken on the job. When I die, you will inherit all fifty boxes and keep their contests safe. I should apologize; you did not sign up to be my memory's keeper when we first began our courtship. This, however, is one of the burdens that come with being a child of Wammy's House: everyone wants what is in your head. I trust you will take good care of these things when I die, unlike the toaster you set on fire two weeks ago. Which was a shame, because I really wanted some toast with raspberry jam that morning. Moving on._

_Do not feel daunted by the many pictures and writings I have collected about L. He was my teacher, my mentor, my first lover. To cast away his memory would be like cutting off an arm or a leg. One of the many reasons I never became L's successor. At one time, I very much wanted to. It would have been a great honor to carry on L's legacy of being the greatest detective in the world. He was a hero and a leader to everyone in Wammy's House, and we would do anything for him if it meant becoming close to him._

_Can you see where this is going, Detective Matsuda? The pressure of standing next to the great L eventually killed off most of the House's children, forcing some of them to run away -- myself included. L was a great man but --- I do not mean to appear insulting, but sometimes I wonder if he was aware of his effect on those around him. His greatness drew most to madness. That is not something that should be celebrated; I know this now._

_Back to the main point. You must find the rest of the boxes, Matsuda, study their contents, keep their words and images inside you so that I may live on. It is a burden I believe you can carry, because that's the kind of man you are: the kind of man who remembers when the recyclables go out every week; the kind of man who will walk in the pouring rain to the nearest convenience store for the latest manga anthology; the kind of man who is, above all, good. I'm afraid I can't tell you where each box is as I've seem to forgotten their exact whereabouts, but I'm sure you'll find them all in no time._

_A_

Matsuda placed the letter back in its envelope, set everything back in the box, put the box back in its secret compartment, covered it back up with the false panel, then grabbed a roll of duct tape and a marker. Minutes later, he was setting books back on the shelf, covered up the little nub of tape that read **box #1 of 50**.

An hour later, Matsuda is elbow-high in a pile of cushions in the bedroom that A never uses, wondering why he's doing this, why he's going so far for a man he's only known for about a year. Hell, he doesn't even know if all the boxes are even in A's house. Some might be at the station, at his house, in _London_. Then he remembers why (_I believe I am fond of you. Do you like chocolate?_) and laughs, before pulling out Box Number Two from under an old duvet.

Putting together pieces of a puzzle, slowly: nothing new when it comes to A. And he loves it.


End file.
